The Life Preserver
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: "Have you ever even been on a boat before, Sherlock?" "Twice. Neither times were particularly memorable, nor particularly warranting me stepping back onto a ferry." "So, why then?" "Because I have a case, John." Stepping onto a boat with Sherlock Holmes could be described as 'dangerous'. And, of course, John ignores the danger and steps on the boat, anyway.
1. Prologue

**The Life Preserver**

**Prologue**

"Twenty_ years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."_

_- Mark Twain_

"Have you ever even been on a boat before, Sherlock?" John muttered apprehensively, casting his gaze towards the consulting detective turned boat passenger.

"Twice," Sherlock said idly, not looking away from the map he was holding. "Neither times were particularly memorable, nor particularly warranting me stepping foot back onto a ferry."

"So, why then?"

"Because I have a case, John," Sherlock replied curtly, in the tone that clearly stated that he was getting annoyed with John's inane questions.

John rolled his eyes, pacing along the dock.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been on a boat before. He'd been on a boat before. As it seemed to be the case with Sherlock, John hadn't had particularly memorable experiences and he didn't particularly like being on a boat. He wasn't afraid of sailing. He wasn't afraid of the open water. He wasn't afraid of stepping onto a ferry and watching the sights.

However, a ferry was a ferry. It provided little entertainment for people who wanted to keep themselves busy.

On top of dreading the handful of hours that they were going to have to spend on the sea, John was also dreading spending those handful of hours on the sea with _Sherlock Holmes_.

For a lack of wall to shoot, John figured that Sherlock might start shooting fish if he got bored, which he was likely to do.

"John."

John glanced up, looking back towards Sherlock. "Yeah?"

Sherlock looked down at him absently. Clearly his mind was somewhere else. "Did you bring my violin?"

John stared at him. "Your violin? What- why would I?"

Sherlock's gaze drifted away. "Shame."

"You panic if so much as breathe in the general direction of your precious piece of wood, Sherlock. Why would I bother to bring it?"

"It's not a piece of wood, John!" Sherlock retorted, his full attention suddenly on him again.

John shrugged, holding up his hands. They'd had arguments to this likeness before, about Sherlock's violin; John thought it was all rather funny when Sherlock got bothered over an insult to a violin. Non-sentimental? Yeah, right.

"I suppose your clarinet was just a piece of metal," Sherlock muttered, folding the map back up huffily.

John watched him for a moment before clearing his throat. Sherlock didn't look up. "Sherlock, you're crinkling the map."

Sherlock paused, looking at the map now as though seeing it for the first time. He sniffed and folded the map up neatly before striding away, disappearing into the cabin.

John grinned and, finally deciding to join Sherlock on the ferry, soon followed him thereafter.

* * *

**Got a very weird idea earlier while half-watching a movie earlier. And, the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it might work. So, welcome to the prologue. It gets better. Won't give away the plot, but there's going to be illness, lots of h/c, quite possibly some angst and very probably some drama. Now what kind of drama, is the question?**

**Nonetheless, the dolphins have heard that Sherlock will be on the sea and decided that they ought to escape while they can. They said "So long, and thanks for all the fish". [Does anybody get it...? x'D]**

**Thanks!**


	2. Mateys, We Be Experiencing Minor Illness

**Chapter One**

"Fuel checked?"

"Perfectly fine, Mr. Holmes."

"Transponder checked?"

"Sherlock, we're on a boat, not a plane."

"Boats have them, too, and besides, John, the technical term is a 'ferry'. Do refrain from calling it a boat."

"I honestly don't see the difference."

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, as much as would love to listen to your unimportant little row, I feel that it might interfere with my job, so please do not hesitate to remove yourselves from over my shoulder."

John smiled lazily, retreating away from their Captain for the day. "Come on, Sherlock. Might as well enjoy the sights."

"I don't want to enjoy the sights; the sights are dull."

John paused, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Did you all of a sudden get _really_ excited for this case, or is there another reason that you look so worked up?" He paused again, with a sort of sinking (John, he thought to himself, whatever you do, do not make a lame pun verbally) sensation. "Don't tell me that you're already bored. We haven't even left yet."

"Well, it _is_ rather boring," Sherlock muttered, following John back onto the stern.

* * *

Boating was nice.

John rest his chin on the railing, watching the ocean pass by. It was _beautiful_- so very much so- and so calm and so peaceful that it made him want to close his eyes and drift off to sleep. Perhaps, in retrospect, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to do.

His eyelashes were obscuring his vision and he was struggling to keep his eyes open, even though he was standing up, when he felt Sherlock grab onto the railing as well. John blinked hard and raised his head, looking sleepily towards the man who had been standing, stoically, next to him for the past twenty minutes.

Sherlock looked pale.

"Sherlock?" John stood up straight, looking closely at his friend. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied automatically, although, John noted, his fingers were holding onto the railing so tightly that his knuckles were stretched taut and white.

"You look sick," he said. Only after he said that did the two pieces click together, and he gaped slightly at Sherlock. "You get sea sick?"

Sherlock snorted slightly. The fact that he didn't immediately deny it (and even if he had, John wouldn't have believed him; he looked terrible, quite... green about the gills, to be honest) was enough for John.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, why did you want to take a boat ride when you get sea sick?"

"Because. I have a case," Sherlock said, seperating and enunciating each word. "That might not mean anything to you, John, but to me, it's-" He stopped quite abruptly.

John leaned away slightly as he watched Sherlock press his lips together tightly, watched him swallow reflexively. "That's not good for you," he remarked, when Sherlock seemed to have gotten the urge to be sick under control.

"Beneficial or not-" Sherlock started, but was interrupted by a rather bumpy turn of the ferry. John clutched onto the railing instinctively, but Sherlock let go of it entirely, turning rather sharply to be sick over the edge of the boat.

John sighed quietly.

This was going to be a long boat ride.

"You need to go lay down," he said. "Ideally, it's said that it can be 'self-cured'," here he hooked his fingers into fake quotation marks, "and that actually sitting outside helps, but..."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I'll be fine-" The boat lurched again and Sherlock stumbled. John grabbed a fistful of the back of Sherlock's jacket, just in case. "What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed, stepping out of John's reach. He stumbled again- clearly he was suffering from vertigo- but he was holding onto the railing this time.

"I didn't feel like having to fish you out of the water right now," he said dryly.

Sherlock half-glared at him, although the effect was lessened by the slight tremors that John could see moving through the detective's body. "Sea humour, John? Really?"

"What?"

"'Fish you out,'" Sherlock quoted back to him.

Had he...? That one hadn't even been intentional, he reasoned, ignoring the warmth that was probably a blush of embarrassment. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't notice that one... Go lay down," he finished sternly, fixing Sherlock with his typical I'm-your-doctor-don't-argue look.

Sherlock pushed away from the railing, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. "Fine." He turned, not arguing, although muttering under his breath "Should've brought the violin..."

"Playing the violin helps with your sea-sickness?" John asked, staring at his retreating back.

"Think, John, it helps me think. As long as I focus on something other than the uncoordinating senses, I'm fine, but, as is ever obvious, you failed to bring along my violin." Sherlock vanished into the cabin, leaving John staring at the spot where he'd vanished.

"Well..." John muttered, turning back to the ocean. "I'll be sure to pack your sodding violin the next time we go on a boating trip..." he muttered to himself, falling silent afterwards.

Of all the things, it had to be sea-sickness. Nothing phased Sherlock Holmes, but put him on a boat and he'd be sicker than a dog in less than a half an hour. Some small, sadistic part of John was saying that it was actually rather funny, looking at it. Give him a body and it was Christmas. Give him a cruise and he'd turn white at the thought.

... Perhaps that was why Sherlock gave up his ambition to be a pirate.

John actually laughed out loud when he thought that.

"Bad, John..." he muttered to himself, still grinning as he sank into a nearby lounge chair. "Inconsiderate..." Although, all in all, if Sherlock felt sick, maybe John could have some quiet time to himself.

In actuality, since Sherlock felt sick, John wouldn't have any time, let alone quiet time, to himself at all.

Damn doctor instincts; they always got him in the end.

* * *

**I had to put a bit of Martinesque dialogue in the beginning. I have Cabin!Pressure fever~ And I love the idea of Sherlock being sea sick and having to give up his dream of being a pirate in that sense, but that's just codswolloping drivel on my behalf. xD**

**Before you ask: no, I don't know where they're boating out from, I don't know where they're boating _to_, location wise. All I know is that they're going to be on the boat for several hours.**

**By the way, to all of those who understood the reference, you are awesome. Remember to keep your towel close by.**

**Your support is lovely. :) Thanks! **


	3. Some Rough Weather Ahead, Mateys

**Chapter Two**

"Sherlock?"

John quietly pushed Sherlock's door open, peering inside. Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor, a pillow shoved over his head. John blinked in surprise.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John tried to push the door open all the way, but Sherlock's foot was acting as a doorstop. "Why are you on the floor?" He gave the door a harsh shove, forcing Sherlock's foot out of the way and stepping into the small room.

Sherlock gave a sort of muffled groan on reply. He raised a hand and waved John away, which John promptly ignored.

Being careful not to step on any of Sherlock's extremities, as he was sprawled out carelessly on the cabin floor, he crouched next to the consulting detective.

"Hey," he muttered, pulling the pillow away from Sherlock's head.

"Stop it," Sherlock muttered, drawing his limbs closer to him and rolling onto his side. "I'm trying to sleep."

"On the floor? Come on, Sherlock, get up," John said, gripping Sherlock's arm and trying to haul him to his feet. Sherlock was dead weight when he wanted to be, though. "Sherlock," John griped.

"I'm fine on the floor, give me back my pillow."

"You can get your pillow when you get in bed."

"Bed makes me feel worse, just give me back my pillow!" Sherlock's voice slipped into something that sounded suspiciously, to John's ears, like a whine.

John gave him back the pillow. "Laying on the floor helps you. Where you can actually feel the waves more."

"John, please," Sherlock muttered, thumping the pillow back over his head.

"You are such a strange person." John stood, taking the two steps to Sherlock's bed and sitting on it. "Do you need anything?"

"Why would I need anything?"

John was about to respond when the boat lurched again. He placed a hand against the wall to steady himself, noting why Sherlock didn't like the bed. He, also, noted how Sherlock sat up too quickly, his face chalky white, eyes searching. John slid the wastepaper bin to Sherlock and tried to ignore the sound of him being violently sick.

"Better?" John asked, after a moment of silence that blissfully went otherwise unbroken.

"No, I don't feel better," Sherlock said harshly, closing his eyes when the boat dipped against the waves. "Why is the boat so unsteady?" he ground out.

John shrugged slightly. "How should I know? I can go talk to the Captain if it's going to calm you down."

"Why would it calm me down?" Sherlock muttered breathlessly in return, once again having returned to shoving the pillow over his face.

"I dunno. I'll be back," John said, standing again. He stumbled into the door and cursed the boat. No more than had he stepped out of the room, there was a loud clap of thunder that made even John jump. "... Oh. That's why."

Sherlock had, once again, resurfaced from the pillow at the clap of thunder. There was panic in his eyes, for a split second, that John knew he wasn't supposed to see.

"It's just a thunderstorm, Sherlock," John said. He thought his voice was remarkably more steady than it probably should have been- he felt the worry that Sherlock was clearly experiencing now.

Depending on the severity... well, no, being on boat was just not something that he really _wanted_ to be doing when there was a thunderstorm. It just wasn't high on his to-do list.

"Hold tight," John muttered. "I'll be back..."

"It's safer to stay in the center of the boat," Sherlock moaned, trying to get to his feet.

"No, just stay put! I'm just going to talk to the Captain." The boat lurched again and John stumbled straight into Sherlock.

"You're acting like you're drunk," Sherlock muttered, pushing him away.

"Oh, because you look _so_ much better," John griped, gripping the doorframe and stepping out of the small room. "Stay _here_. I'll be right back."

Sherlock looked liable to argue, if it wasn't for the small fact that a half-second later, he was stumbling for the bin again.

"Sit down," John advised, before taking advantage of Sherlock being unable to follow him and slipping out to talk to the Captain.

* * *

**I watched the first episode of _To the Ends of the Earth _and was amused to find that the beginning was pretty much Ben just getting sea sick. Poor baby. For that programme _and_ for this story.**

**Reviews are lovely! Thanks!**


	4. Batten Down the Hatches!

**Chapter Three**

"Okay, look, it's just a storm. It's not supposed to be severe. The Captain says that we just need to stay down here and it won't take long until we hit sunny skies again."

Sherlock was curled up in the smallest possible space, hugging his knees to his chest. He looked incredibly ill, incredibly vulnerable, and incredibly human. He was pale, sweat along his brow, and he was shaking. He didn't move from his position as John spoke, but his eyes were watching every movement he made.

John sank onto the bed again, taking a deep breath as the boat lurched again. "Nothing to do but wait, really."

When the boat lurched against the waves yet again, John knew without watching that Sherlock was bound to get sick again; the retching started not ten seconds after he thought it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. If this didn't stop soon, he was going to fall victim to motion sickness as well and he really couldn't imagine anything worse than both of them vomiting in the same, tiny room.

"Sherlock, you need to get up here and rest," John muttered, dropping his hand. "And you need to be sipping at that water. You're going to get dehydrated and then you'll really be in trouble."

Sherlock didn't respond. When John looked back at him, he found the detective trembling, once again hugging his knees, the bin held in place between his feet.

John decided that he looked pitiful. He had never felt such equal amounts of sympathy and amusement at the same time. (The whole humour of the Sherlock-gets-sea-sick idea hadn't worn off entirely yet.)

"Come on. Up you get."

John swung his legs off the bed, standing and walking over to Sherlock. He moved the bin and offered a hand to Sherlock.

When Sherlock didn't take it, John stooped down and slipped his arms under Sherlock's, amidst protesting now, and hauled the detective to his feet.

There was suddenly a loud clap of thunder. John jumped and Sherlock flinched in his arms, scrambling away from John so quickly that he nearly fell onto the bed.

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down," John muttered. "I know you're not afraid of storms, so take a breath!"

Sherlock sank heavily onto the bed, looking a bit like a frightened deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. John watched him swallow and barely had time to shove the bin back in Sherlock's hands before he was sick again. At this point, Sherlock was bringing up nothing but bile, although he was sure that it did not lessen the miserable quality of it at all.

"You're okay," John said, taking the bin and handing him the bottle of water. "Rinse your mouth out."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock gasped, although he did follow John's suggestion without further complaint.

"Good?"

Sherlock nodded slightly and John sat the bin down on the floor, keeping it stable by mimicking Sherlock's earlier action of placing it between his feet.

"Drink. Just sips, but you need to keep drinking." He watched Sherlock sip hesitantly at the water for a moment. He could feel rather than see Sherlock shaking and he wished that Sherlock would calm down. It was easier said than done in this experience, he imagined, but the trembling was not going to help settle Sherlock's stomach.

"Listen, I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay put."

"Wha-" Sherlock quickly fumbled for John's arm upon noticing John taking the bin with him. "What are you doing?"

John sighed heavily. "I'm going to dispose of your vomit, Sherlock. Care to accompany me?"

Sherlock made a face that said that he clearly did _not_, although John could have been imagining the smallest trace of embarrassment in those miserable-looking eyes.

"I'll be back in a minute."

A minute turned into a good five before he stumbled- literally- back to Sherlock's room. The boat lurched the moment he stepped over the threshold; he stumbled forward and very nearly careened straight into the far wall before Sherlock caught his jumper between his fingers and pulled him back. John collapsed on the bed next to Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder as a support.

"This is ridiculous..." he complained, handing Sherlock the bin. Sherlock didn't take it immediately but eventually settled with placing it on the floor again. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John took that as a 'no'.

"I wonder how long this is going to last..." he continued before another clap of thunder cracked in the distance, causing them both to jump. "Sherlock... Sherlock, look at me." It took a moment, but Sherlock did, eventually, meet his gaze. "I need you to take a deep breath, yeah? You need to calm down."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, turning away.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder again, shaking it slightly. "Look at me! Your panicking is just going to upset your stomach more!"

Sherlock looked back at him. "I'm not panicking, John. I'm simply uneasy with the circumstances."

Pleased that John seemed to have ensnared the Sherlock that he knew and tolerated, he grasped onto the chance to keep him there.

"You're shaking. You flinch every time it thunders."

"I'm shaking because I'm vomiting, which, as you should know, doctor, happens automatically. I flinch at the thunder because, considering my current state of mind, it manages to sneak up on me."

"How does thunder sneak-"

"Don't ask such pointless drivel, John. It's not helping."

_I beg to differ_, John stated mentally, noting that Sherlock's vomiting had stopped for the time being.

And then there was another peal of thunder, the boat fumbled about with the waves, and Sherlock was hunched over the bin again in the next moment.

Well. At least there had been a moment's reprieve.

* * *

**By special request, here is another chapter of this adventure! And what a [disgusting] adventure it is turning out to be... Poor Sherlock; he can't so much as take a seat without being assailed by nausea. Poor John; he can't so much as walk without nearly falling into something. Poor Baker Street Boys. They're on a boat in the middle of a thunderstorm. Well. It would make for an interesting blog, wouldn't it?**

**Thanks for reading and your thoughts are appreciated!**


	5. Two Batches of Sea-Sickness Ahoy!

"Take a deep breath," John ordered. "Breathe, Sherlock."

John pushed Sherlock's head forward. Sherlock complied with the motion, resting his forehead on his own knees, gasping for breath.

"Just breathe; you're fine," John murmured, keeping his hand against Sherlock's back.

The detective was drenched in sweat and shaking, struggling to catch his breath after the latest gagging-retching-vomiting spree.

"Of course I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, raising his head. "Fine..."

"Of course you are," John muttered, pushing Sherlock's sweat-drenched bangs out of his eyes. "Water."

"Just give me a second!" Sherlock snapped, but he grabbed the water bottle from its resting place on the blankets. He wrenched the cap off with shaking hands and took a small drink.

"Good..." John murmured, absently massaging small circles onto Sherlock's back.

Sherlock tried to shift away, groaning quietly. "Stop it..."

"Okay, sorry," John apologized, raising his hands. "Sorry. Instincts."

Sherlock pressed his forehead back against his knees as the boat lurched and bounced about again. John resisted the urge to place his hand against the detective's back again.

John, instead, took to hauling himself to his feet and carefully walking to the door. He peered into the hallway for something to do, rather than sitting next to the trembling, sick Sherlock. There was no one wandering the hallways, but what did he expect? He and Sherlock, and the Captain, were the only people on the boat.

"John," Sherlock groaned.

John glanced back at him in question.

"Close the door..."

John sighed, stepping back into the cabin and closing the door again.

Sherlock had taken it upon himself to shrug his button-down shirt off and sprawl out on the small bed. The pillow was hiding his face, his hair, sticking up in a disarray, visible from underneath.

"Well, this is fun," John muttered, shoving Sherlock's feet out of the way and sitting on the end of the bed. Sherlock protested slightly, but curled up on his side, drawing his legs close. "Just rest," John murmured, flinching delicately as thunder crashed. At least, here in the cabin, they couldn't see the lightning.

"John..."

"What?" John asked, looking at Sherlock.

"How long have we been on board..."

"Uh... hour and a half."

"Ugh..."

"You'll be fine," John started, before being interrupted by the boat, for the unknownth time, hitting another round of unsteady water. He felt his own stomach jolt sickeningly before he scrambled to grab the bin for himself.

"John!" Sherlock complained, scrambling away from John.

"I'm sorry!" John gasped, even though he wasn't. "I've been watching you vomit for the past hour and a half!"

Sherlock groaned again, pressing his hands against his face.

John rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, placing the bin back onto the floor. "Well, I could do without that again..." he muttered, to himself.

"I could do without that, as well..." Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, well, the combination of you and the way the boat's moving isn't helping at all..."

"I hate boating..." Sherlock moaned.

"All this torture for the sake of a case..." John grumbled, more to himself and under his breath.

"The work is the only thing that matters..."

"Of course it is..."

John sighed, leaning back against the wall.

Sherlock had curled up on his side again, his legs drawn close to his chest. He looked childlike and miserable.

"Just get some sleep..." John muttered, resting his hand on Sherlock's ankle. "I'll wake you up when we get there..."

"As if I could even sleep..."

Surprisingly, not ten minutes later, Sherlock's breathing had evened out, he was relaxed, and he was, John hoped, dreaming pleasant dreams.

* * *

**Short chapter! My muse is being disagreeable and rude. Ugh.**


	6. Smooth Sailing for the Mateys

**Chapter Five**

John groaned at a sudden spark of pain that shot through his ribcage.

He opened his eyes to find that he was slumped against the wall, still sitting on the cabin bed of Sherlock's room. He must have fallen asleep.

He glanced down, looking for the source of pain. It took him a few minutes of assessing the situation to realize that...

... Sherlock had kicked him.

John's eyes travelled to the sleeping consulting detective. Sherlock was sprawled out on the small bed, one of his feet against John's side.

John sniffed and shoved Sherlock's ankle away. "Keep your feet to yourself," he muttered. Considering Sherlock was still asleep, John guessed it had been unconscious stretching or something similar. That being said, getting kicked in the ribcage was not particularly unpleasant.

John stretched and hauled himself to his feet, yawning widely.

It took him a few seconds to realize what was going on.

Or, rather, the _lack_ of what _had_ been going on.

The boat was completely steady. Everything was silent.

John looked around the cabin warily, waiting for the boat to lurch or a crash of thunder to announce that the thunderstorm was still raging around them.

Nothing.

"Please tell me that this thunderstorm is over..." John murmured, walking away from the cabin bed and making his way to the door.

It took him only a few seconds to get from the cabin back onto the stern of the boat, and it took him even less time to realize that what he had thought was actually true.

The thunderstorm was over.

The sky was a murky colour, covered with rain clouds, but the rain had stopped with the thunder and lightning. It was muggy and the air was heavy, making John take a deep breath to replenish his oxygen, but at least it seemed to be clear for now. There were a few birds flying across the sky and they were chirping happily.

John smiled faintly before going to visit with the Captain.

* * *

After checking up with the Captain, John meandered back to Sherlock's cabin. He was thinking to himself, and not altogether excited to wake up Sherlock and deal with the detective's ranting and rambling. (He'd nearly be back to his normal self now, John realized.)

It certainly had been a rather eventful day, if he could say so himself. He had expected the day to go not so smoothly, considering _Sherlock_ and _ferry_ were in the same sentence, but he hadn't expected... sea-sickness and thunderstorms.

"Sherlock," he said, walking back into Sherlock's cabin. "Sherlock, wake up. We're going to be there in about ten minutes."

When he received no reply, John sighed. He walked to Sherlock, grabbed the detective's shoulder, and shook it.

"Wake up," he repeated. "Are you listening? Boat ride's over."

"G'way," Sherlock slurred, curling up.

"Come on, Sherlock..."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He opened his eyes and John was meant with a glare.

"Hey," John greeted. "The thunderstorm's over and we'll be at the destination in ten minutes."

Sherlock's eyes darted away from John and around the cabin for a moment. He seemed to be realizing the thunderstorm was indeed over.

"Oh..." Sherlock murmured. He sat up carefully, flinching slightly.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Just my stomach..."

"Does it hurt or are you still queasy?"

"Both."

Sherlock stretched, yawning. He swung his legs off the bed, stumbling to his feet. He seemed to regret it, paling slightly, and John was all prepared to grab Sherlock's arm and the bin in a single moment, but Sherlock seemed to regain control a moment later.

"Maybe you should stay sitting..." John suggested.

Sherlock sighed after a moment before sinking back into a sitting position. He was still pale, his hair was unkept from the nap, and he looked more withdrawn than usual.

"We'll be on dry land soon enough," John said conversationally, trying to improve Sherlock's mood.

Sherlock only nodded slightly, resting his head on his hand.

"Well, this has been an exciting day, hasn't it?" John asked aloud.

Sherlock gave him a very nasty look. "Really, John? I hadn't noticed."

John smiled faintly. "Well, it could always be worse."

"How."

"Er... well..."

Sherlock snorted, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, it could be worse, but I'm not sure how at the moment. Oh! There could be a tornado!" As soon as John said it, he immediately wished he hadn't. "Not to jinx it or anything."

"Yes, John. We still have the ride back yet."

"Oh... That's true. I'd forgotten..." John trailed off. "But, we have a case to solve now!"

"True."

"That has to help."

Sherlock nodded, looking up. "I just hope it's not a dull case. It better be worth _this_," he gestured to the boat.

"Considering it's you, nothing is ever _not_ dull," John said.

"Well, it's hardly my fault."

"No. The genius is never to blame..."

"Exactly."

"Even though that genius gets sea-sick."

"Righ-" Sherlock stopped talking, returning his glare at John.

John only laughed.

* * *

**So, Sherlock Holmes, sea-sickness, and a thundestorm. I write the most obscure ideas, and yet, people like it. So, THANK YOU, so much for the favs and follows and reviews that accompanied this story. Hopefully you enjoyed the ferry ride more than Sherlock and John did. =p**

**Thanks!**


End file.
